


Moral Compass

by herbailiwick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Underage Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 00:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is sixteen and attracted to Bobby, and when Bobby can't keep quiet anymore, he has a talk with Sam about it.</p><p>Rated PG-13 because Sam is a minor. There is no kissing here even, but the attraction is clear and Bobby sets boundaries, intending for nothing, not even kissing, to happen at all...at least not until Sam is eighteen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moral Compass

Bobby backs up, only to find his back pressed against one of the cars. He looks up at the young teen thing, at the boy who always scares him a little. John's always saying there's something about Sam that isn't quite right. This might be part of that. There may be worlds of kindness in those puppy dog eyes, but Sam's creepy, too. Always has been. Probably always will be. 

Oh, he's not creepy in a watch-out-he's-gonna-kill-you way. He's more creepy in a why-would-you-ask-that, you're-too-smart-for-your-own-good-kid, you-need-to-take-it-easy-on-that-studying-you're-makin'-my-head-hurt kind of way. Sam just feels...other. He feels like he doesn't belong. What's worse is Sam knows it, has always known it, and he tries so damn hard for it not to be true.

"Someday, kid," Bobby told him once, "you're not gonna worry so much about what the other idjits all think, and then you'll take the world by storm."

Sam steps closer, and, yeah, he's got some height on Bobby, and Bobby swallows, and he ineffectually chokes out, "What are you on about, boy? You really gotta stop this." Because Sam keeps getting in his space. 

Because Bobby kind of likes it.

Because Sam seems to know, or at least to hope, that it's true.

Sam sort of freezes and shoves his hands in his pockets but doesn't move away, and Bobby's face softens because Sam's so young, because he never means any of the harm he causes.

Bobby recognizes the tight t-shirt Sam's wearing. He knows what he's doing, Sam. Bobby's stared at Sam in the t-shirt too much already, curse his soul. Sam's been offering to help with the cars, though he doesn't really know what he's doing. He's offered to delve into so much Latin research that it's a miracle he still remembers what English sounds like. And all that's on top of the homework he's been doing. The kid needs to take a break.

The kid needs to stop trying to wind Bobby up, because he is. He's a dangerous kid, despite his intentions. 

"Kid, I know what you're about," Bobby says with a sigh.

And just like that, Sam crumples, brow furrowing, head bowing for a moment before lifting back up with panic evident in those soft eyes. He looks mighty freaked out as he turns on the spot and runs for the house on too-long legs.

"They don't pay me enough for this," Bobby tells the cars, squinting against the sun. There's no one else to tell: John and Dean are gone doing the whole Father/Son thing the only way they know how, and Bobby's stuck with fucking Lolita who's just run inside to cry by the looks of things, and, seriously, Bobby didn't sign up for this.

Bobby stands, brushing the dust from the hood of the car off his backside best he can, shaking his head.

"Really. We can't keep doin' this, kid." Sam's sitting with the Walkman he borrowed from Dean, sort of hunched over it, but the headphones are around his neck and his hair's in his face and he's doing that self-loathing thing.

"I'm not doing anything," Sam says, voice still laden with panic.  

"Do I look stupid to you?" Bobby says gruffly. Best to throw out any denial; they're above that, or at least they should be.

Sam sits there like a lone dying leaf on the ground, just waiting for the slightest breeze to pick him up and toss him around. 

"You're flirting with me. I get it. Or," Bobby amends quickly, "to be honest, I don't. But, I appreciate that you have...feelings."

Sam scoffs.

"I know what feelings look like, okay?" Bobby says with a hint of annoyance.

Sam sort of slumps over even more. His hands rise to grip at the plastic band of the headphones on either side. The music is on, low, and Bobby can't quite tell what the song is, but he's not quite done with the conversation, figuring this is the only in he'll get when it comes to dealing with a Winchester, even the most open one.

"I want you to be careful, Sam. That's what I want."

Sam sits up and turns toward Bobby, his confusion plain.

"There are others out there, Sammy. Hunters I would trust my life with but wouldn't let anywhere near my teenage son." Sam shrugs and bows his head a little, but he's listening. "Sam," Bobby says with some hesitation, "there's an innocence about you I don't want anyone taking away."

Sam's face shutters. He goes very blank, and Bobby knows he needs to make that sound better in order to reach him again.

"It's a damn good thing," Bobby says firmly. 

Sam furrows his brow and says, "Sounds more like a liability." Sam is constantly thinking he's a liability, the weakest link. Bobby doesn't see him that way; they're all just different, the Winchesters. If anyone's the weakest link, it's John.

"Only in some ways," Bobby says. "In others, it's like a...superpower."

Sam's expression jumps straight to incredulity.

"You may not ever be the best hunter in terms of killing, but your innocence makes you like a moral compass, and, to be frank, I don't think your daddy has much of one."

Sam looks surprised at that, not used to hearing Bobby talk that way about John. He's always surprised when Bobby lets him in on something like that, which is never often.

"I...," Sam bows his head again. "I know you sort of want to...take it away." Bobby freezes a little, self-recrimination bubbling below the surface of his thoughts as he tries to keep his cool. "I think we both...I mean, we're family, but...."

"I care a hell of a lot more about _you_ than I care about some sort of stolen kiss with a minor against a car, okay?" Bobby says, raising his voice, ignoring Sam's slight flinch. "We're not gonna go there. I don't order you around much, but we're not gonna do that."

"Fair enough," Sam says quietly, sounding a little choked.

"The thing is...you don't see how amazing you're gonna be, or how many hearts you're gonna steal. I can see it, Sam. Take my word on that." He's got perspective Sam doesn't have yet.

"I'm really sorry, Bobby," Sam says, furrowing his brow. "God, this past week...I didn't...I didn't think."

"I'm sorry too. And, no," Bobby says, expression softening a little. "I'm not gonna tell your daddy." Sam seems to tense up at that.

Oh.

"And I'm definitely not telling Dean either," Bobby says, and Sam relaxes just a bit.

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam says in a tears-hoarse voice. 

Bobby turns to leave him to his music, pausing in the doorway when he hears Sam's voice again.

"It's...it's just you, though." Sam sounds choked and embarrassed, and Bobby lets Sam speak to his back, lets himself out of having to see Sam's sweet, careful expression. "I mean...I trust you."

Bobby closes his eyes for a moment. "Kid," he says, "you trust everyone." 

Bobby hears Sam sniffle, and it's too much. He goes out to take a look at the car he'd been working on earlier that morning, when Sam had come out and asked if he'd teach him a thing or two, flashing his smile, running fingers through his own soft-looking hair.

The yard seems too quiet without Sam in it, for once. 

They'll be okay, in time. Bobby knows he did the right thing. He swallows. 

No. On second thought, he's gonna need a drink.

In the kitchen, he spots Sam pouring some orange juice, stops the line of his eyes at Sam's upper back, tries not to fixate on the hair he's ruffled in fun before. Sam's only going to get taller, judging by those huge hands of his. He'll probably have a hell of a time fitting into that Impala.

Without turning from the fridge, Sam asks shakily, "What if I was eighteen?"

"You're not!" Bobby says loudly. "Hell, at eighteen, you won't even think about me this way anymore."

Sam turns, indignant and looking all the more alive and powerful and _tall_ for it. Looking even more _innocent_. He reaches into the fridge, eyes still trained on Bobby, and pulls out a beer for him. He holds it out in offering, closing the door to the fridge.

"Put it on the table," Bobby orders. Sam's brow crinkles sweetly, but he does as told, taking his glass of orange juice in hand, taking a sip, watching critically as Bobby picks up the bottle and gets the cap off.

"So, what, I disgust you now?" Sam says, and his voice is so pinched and small and hurt that Bobby lowers the brim of his cap to block some of Sam out.

"No, Sam. You don't," he says. "Now, please, for both of our sakes, I'm gonna go drink and work on a car, and you're gonna do whatever you wanna do that isn't that, and that's...that."

When Bobby adjusts his cap properly again, when he chances a glance at Sam, Sam is smirking softly.

" _What?_ " Bobby grinds out, feeling exposed and poked fun at and secretly reviled.

"You would if I was eighteen."

Bobby takes his beer and makes a run for the freedom of the outside, for the fresh air and the rusting distractions that don't wear tight t-shirts.


End file.
